My Job
by KateCyrus
Summary: “No Dean. You wanna know what Hell’s like? I was there- three months- I was there.” A short unsettling tag to ‘Mystery Spot’


First things first- no, I am not dead.

But 'thanks' to those of you who have asked.

Life got crazy, I got sick, other people died, and things remain a bit hectic to say the least. But I have still been writing, just not posting- until now.

Below is a tag that I have Stacee Phelps to thank for. One night I was reading all the tags I could find for 'Mystery Spot' (which was a little like watching the episode itself- 100 ways to resolve, every time Sam feels closure he wakes up to R. Kelly's 'I Believe I Can Fly')

Anyway- I stumbled onto Stacee's 'After Three Months' and her concept of Sam continuing to mend his own injuries after things go back to normal inspired the below. Check out her story if you get the chance- she did a great job with it!

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And for any of you who might be wondering...

**ENERGIES AND ICE CREAM**

**Is Back!**

Starting one week from tonight - March 6th - I will post the first of the next 4 chapters. I will continue to post a chapter a week (every Thursday) throughout the month of March. Something has to fill that Thursday night time slot other than 'Reaper'.

So, four new chapters that bring us just shy of the end- _yay!_

_(For the full update stop by my profile.) _

I'm really excited about posting, so I hope you'll check it out!

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Now… enough with the chatter already- here's what you clicked on this link for: 

MYSTERY SPOT -

**My Job**

Sam grabbed the med kit and set himself up in the bathroom. He slowly pulled his bloodied shirt off and inspected the six-inch gash in his side. It was deep, deeper than he'd thought, and stitching it up was going to take time and precision. Sam got the suture needle prepped and without trying to think it through too much, pierced it straight into the top of the wound. He gritted his teeth and pulled. He had done this before, lots of times in those phantom weeks he had spent without Dean, but somehow now, standing here alone while his brother trekked off to the closest bar, somehow this was the moment that felt surreal, and the psychological result was an unsteady hand unable to complete a simple task.

Sam placed the needle in for the second time, the spacing was too far apart but he ignored it and drew the tread anyway. As he pulled it taunt the extra skin bulged and pushed a well of muddied blood to the surface.

"Shit," Sam cursed. He quickly tried to add and extra stitch, but in his haste yanked at it and ended up tearing the thread straight through his skin. It seemed to almost pop and the whole thing broke open. The unexpected burst of pain and grotesque shifting of flesh and blood drove a sickening knot of bile up into his throat. He convulsed and placed a shaky hand onto the sink. He turned on the water and scooped some up over his face. Sam brushed his mouth with the back of his hand as he glared into the mirror and stared himself down. _Your job_, he thought, _this is your job._ The edge of his mouth curled into a snarl and he pushed off the sink to stand on his own. The expression remained cold, hard, eyes focused into the mirror, and then… it all quickly softened.

His eyes filled with tears, the small gasping beginnings of a hard cry slipped from his lips, and as the pain beckoned to an acuteness he could no longer ignore, Sam fell back and slammed into the opened door of the small bathroom. He shook his head as his vision glazed and the room began to darken.

"My job," he whispered, "mine." With a choked back grunt, Sam slid slowly down the door; as his eyes shut, he slumped over hard, landing with a crack against the cold tile floor.

It had been almost a month since Sam had woken, woken for real. Things were normal since the Trickster had left, things were how they had been, but Sam… he was living in two worlds confused as to where to put his foot down. Live where he had been or where he was headed, and he was alone, a hunter doing his job and nothing more. Live in the present, and he was still a kid brother, fearing what he had just left, and what his future would become.

"Sam! Can you hear me? Sammy!" The voice came in pieces, making little sense as it pulled him to. "Son of a bitch. Sam, come on, sit up," it instructed. Sam felt movement, and irritation; he did not want to be budged. He opened his eyes as the last straw, a repeated smack to his face, jolted him to respond.

"Stuup-- stup it." The words weren't coming out right, and what he was seeing didn't make sense. Dean was there, in flashes, grabbing him, pulling him, right in his face. But Dean, Dean was gone. Dean was gone. "No," Sam blurted. "Nuh- you're gone… gone."

"Sam come on, get up," Dean's voice came accompanied by a swift pull from the floor. "I gotta stitch this. Help me out here."

"Nuh- no, my job," Sam blurted deliriously. "My job, you're gone… you're gone."

"I'm here, and I need you to stand. So stand Sam." Sam tried. He put weight on his legs but movement came and he felt his surroundings sway from under him. Then, with uncomfortable abruptness, he felt himself land on his back with a cushioned bounce. He shook his head and forced open his eyes. Dean was above him pulling at the broken strands of tread that were unsuccessfully holding his wound shut.

"No," Sam said harshly as he shoved his brother away. "Stop, I have to… myself… I--" Sam went woozy as he felt his brother grab and confine his hands.

"Sam stop it!" Dean demanded.

"No… no…" Sam argued in a half-conscious state. "I…" he broke into exhausted tears. "I have to Dean-- I have to--" Sam opened his eyes and sat up long enough to focus on his brother, long enough to make eye contact and sink into a heavy consuming sob. "You're gone--" he cried. "You're not here. You're gone," he insisted.

Dean, finally realizing the significance of his younger brother's rambling, grabbed hold of him and pushed him back onto the bed.

"Sam. Sammy listen to me…"

"No… no…" Sam resisted.

"I'm not gone. I'm here. Alright? I'm right here, and you need help--"

"No--" Sam continued defiant and crying.

"Yes Sam." Dean brushed his hand up onto his brother's forehead and held him to the pillow. "Sam listen to me--"

"You don't understand-- you don't--" Sam sobbed restlessly.

"Sam, you're right Sam. I don't. But--"

"Three months… three months and you have no idea…" Sam's eyes shut as he began to fade. "No idea…"

"Sam… Sammy--" Sam heard his name fade distant and quiet as he lost himself in the muddled discomfort of troubled unconsciousness. His brother was here, in front of him, holding him, mending him, but it couldn't be. He couldn't let it be.

"So… you wanna tell me what's going on?" He heard his brother question the moment the room came into full focus. Sam rubbed his eyes, pushed himself up, and evaded the subject.

"How long was I out?"

"Long enough to stitch you up," Dean stated deliberately circling the conversation right back where he wanted it. Sam glanced down at the large white bandage taped just below his ribs.

"Sorry," he blurted quietly. "Why are you even back? You left for the bar."

"I dropped you off and was half way there when I noticed blood on the passenger seat." Dean stared at him for a moment, silent. "There was a lot," he added with an edge of disquiet. "You should have said something." Sam looked away. The tears returned, but he controlled them and looked back at his brother.

"It was worse than I thought. I didn't look at it until I was here and by then it was too late. You were gone."

"Yeah, you mentioned that," Dean stated less than stoic.

"Mentioned… what?" Sam questioned.

"That I'm gone." The words cut into Sam and the memory of his ramblings returned. "Over and over again you said it." Dean continued. "You're gone, you're gone- but I'm not Sam, not yet, and if--"

"You were," Sam cut him off. "You were. Okay? Is that what you want to hear? Is it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The Trickster Dean! He messed with me… and he got me." Sam admitted. "He's still got me."

"Sam--

"No Dean! You wanna know what Hell's like? I was there- three months- I was there!"

"Sam- what happened?!" Dean demanded, a sharp edge of anger cutting through his voice. "What three months?"

"He killed you--"

"I know tha--"

"No Dean, he killed you and I couldn't wake up! I couldn't wake up! I broke out of that loop and for three months I moved forward… without you. And I was nobody. I ate, slept, and hunted, and when I finally found him… Dean I begged… like a coward and a child, I _begged_ for him to put things back. And now that they are… that you're here… I just-- Dean-- if I let this feel good-- if I-- I can't... I just can't."

"Then I may as well already be dead." Dean looked at his brother with conviction. "Seriously Sam, what's the point of me living if you've stopped?"

"Dean--"

"Sam, I don't know how this is gonna turn out, and it's real likely that we won't find a way and I will go to Hell. But right now… I'm here. And what you went through may have _felt_ real, but this _is_ real. So if you get hurt, or shot, hell if you get a God damn paper cut I wanna know and I wanna be the one to take care of it! My time for being your brother is running out, and I'm not gonna let anyone take a moment of that away from me… not even you Sam."

Sam remained quite. There was nothing to say; his brother was right. This was real, and this was it: the only time they had left. He tightened his lips and gave an accepting nod.

"Okay," Dean confirmed quietly. Sam forced a contorted smile and pushed himself from the bed. He headed toward the bathroom, but halfway there stopped.

"It's not okay." He turned to face his brother. "Dean,_ I'm _not okay. What we do… sacrificing ourselves for one another over and over… nothing good does come of it. Just pain… eternal pain." Sam took a breath and exhaled heavily. "Why Dean, why couldn't you have just let me go?"

"I told you," Dean pushed stubbornly, "I was selfish."

"You were wrong," Sam stated flatly. "And we're both goin' to Hell for it." Sam turned, walked away, and shut himself into the bathroom.

Dean took in the emptiness of the room: it was constricting, it was isolating, and it was imminent.

"I was just doing my job," he lamented. "All I did was my job."

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Thanks guys- 

Kate


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